The Things We Learn
by ReoPlusOne
Summary: America and Canada have a lot to learn. But slowly, they are learning after all. Gen, past implied FrUK. Genderbent France and genderbent Canada. Canada's part to come later.
1. Alfred

"Un-deux-trois, un-deux-trois, un-deux-trois..."

His first memory is of this sound. His parents had never gotten along, his father had told him, and they hadn't for centuries. So though he was daily under the care of his father there were times when his mother was allowed into his life. And the moment he could walk, she insisted he learn how to dance.

The room is filled with nothing but words in French, a language he is entirely unfamiliar with, mumbled in rapid succession as he toddles around, clutching her hands tightly. The confusion at the words is the bit that stuck with him most. Are they a chant? A prayer to dance to? Does his father, with all his wisdom, understand them? His sister (who spends her days with their mother and is occasionally allowed to see his father) is fast asleep in her chair, her little feet twitching to the rhythm. She has probably already completed all of her lessons.

And when little America grows tired and his face scrunches up with a frown, his mother drops to her knees, dirtying her beautiful gown, and speaks more French to him. And he doesn't understand it really, but he knows she means she loves him. And as she says it he crawls happily into her arms and falls fast asleep.

It would be a long time before he completed his lessons as his sister had. And by that time Madeline would be the property of his father England, and he himself would be on the path to freedom. It would be evening again, and he would be just as tired as he was then, his feet sore from practicing marching and shooting, his head throbbing from listening to shouted orders all day. Conceiving a revolution was the easiest thing he'd ever done, but now that it was here it took all he had to keep it going. And when he mentioned this to her, irritated and pulling on his nightclothes, she simply laughed. "It is the same with all things," She said with a shrug, "But most of all with children."

That seemed to put both their minds back in the same place, and within a moment she was ushering him to his (bare) feet and dragging him to the biggest space in his small tent for a dance. He was taller than she now, but worst of all, now that he was no longer prepubescent he was expected to lead it.

And though she was his mother and much much smaller than him, there was something irrevocably intimidating about her. Every man in camp desired her, all his officers could hardly stop staring at her long enough to give a respectful bow when she arrived, and he knew this. And he, as an adult (who grew up hardly knowing her) knew he should probably feel the same. But the part of him that longed for the warm affection of an absent mother was still there, and he found himself only longing for her as she was; a mother. So, the rebel boy that had destroyed his father's precious cargo and declared himself independent from all who would govern him unjustly just months before quietly listened and obeyed without question.

Alfred always learned fast. The spins, the steps, the position of his hands all came to him within instants of being told, and soon he really was leading her, stepping perfectly in time with an orchestra that was not there, meeting the gazes of onlookers that did not exist. As the crescendo came and went and they both stood there shimmering with the slight sheen of sweat, he put his head on her shoulder and rested it there, all the weight of the world falling off his own back for but a moment. "Do you ever find..." he murmured against the lace of her collar, "That you miss people? I mean, surely you do, right? Even though -"

"Even though I know I shouldn't," She starts, ever gracious, ever insisting on the most carefully chosen words, "I do."

And he slept just a little bit better that night, knowing that perhaps not being perfect didn't mean he wasn't an adult.


	2. Madeline

As her brother across the border learned a lesson in independence and being on his own, Madeline had to learn an entirely different lesson.

She had come partially into Arthur's possession long ago, but the last seizure of her land was painful enough that she did and always would remember it. She'd grown up in a house full of ladies, doting, high-pitched and always murmuring to one another their gossip about what men were like behind closed doors. And did they talk about ladies as much as ladies talked about them? And were they as polite around one another as they were around them?

One night her mother came to her and held her tightly, apologizing again and again, whispering all kinds of terrified nothings into her ear of how it wasn't her decision, how her monarch had wished it and it wasn't her, and to please forgive her. And within hours, just before sunrise, four British officers came to the door to take Madeline away.

When she saw a grand house on a hill flying the British flag in the distance and realized it was her father's house, she thought that perhaps she could answer some of her friends' questions. But it was only after living with her brother and father for so long that she realized that it was both boring and terrifying. Though England had been nothing short of cordial when she was allowed to see him as a child, now that she was a lady (and living in his home) he was nothing short of ignorant of the fact that she was there. His focus at first was entirely on his son, precious boy, and when that relationship began to sour, on his affairs in Europe.

And then in an instant Alfred was gone. One day she awoke and got dressed, and found no one in the kitchen but a few wide-eyed slaves mumbling in terror about their master being furious. Just judging from what she'd heard out of them she expected an enraged hellion bursting through the front door, but the unbelievable truth was that he entered as quietly as his son had left, staring into a cup of tea like it was staring back at him.

And so while Alfred was down south getting one more dancing lesson, Madeline took a class in how to suffer.

He started by writing letters. Hundreds of letters, all to Alfred under the new surname he'd taken for himself: Jones. And when she'd quietly asked if she could perhaps give herself a new last name too (Madeline Kirkland just didn't sound right) he just _looked _at her, looked like she was a cup of tea sending his reflection to stare right back at him. And she never spoke of it again. Suffering was something Arthur had learned a lot about, she found. Because there was no one else to talk to in the house, she sat politely and listened to every story he had to tell. The more stories he told, the worse she felt for him.

"The point of a siege, you see," Arthur started like a man twice his physical age, "Is to choke out your enemy. Force them into a surrender by waiting for their resources to dry up."

Talking of such things must have been so easy for him and Alfred, Madeline considered for a moment. But she had not studied military strategy nor military history, only being able to quietly agree, "Like a wolf waiting for something in a tree?"

He continues as if she was not there. Perhaps, Madeline wondered, she really wasn't and he was simply a lunatic living alone, rambling on about siege. "The siege at Yorktown went... poorly, you see. It isn't always easy to be on the other side."

As a child, misery never stayed long, only lasting as long as a breeze flying through the house in the warm summers, but Arthur seemed to see misery as a way of life, something that hung on him like a black cloak he could never shed, something he inflicted on others (the biggest victim and cause of his misery of course being her mother) in retaliation. Slowly, surely, it got worse.

She learned to never cry in front of others, and if you felt the need to, a good pinch to the bridge of your nose could stop it right quick. She learned that the one and only time you could say what you felt was at prayer time before bed, when no one could hear you but God (or so Arthur thought, the walls were thin and she was sure he could hear her crying for her mother as much as she heard him crying for his son).

She learned that no matter how many times you cry and say you'll do anything to get the person you love back, God will never relent.

She learned that in the end, the best way to lessen your suffering is to will yourself to let it go, and she learned this best because Arthur never did. Every sight of Alfred, every thought of him left him mourning just a little. And he kept on with his daily life, like she had learned to go on with hers minus Marianne, and together they found a little bit of comfort. She slept where Alfred used to before he outgrew the space in Arthur's bed, though he could never hold her too close lest he touch her breasts, and Arthur whispered her lullabies like her mother used to, though they'd never be in French. Through the heartbreak they'd forged their friendship in, they carried on.

But it would never be the same.


End file.
